Endless Light
by NicolleOrgana
Summary: Han offers some small comfort to Leia after the battle of Yavin.


_You taught me the courage of stars before you left_

 _How light carries on endlessly, even after death_

 _\- "Saturn" by Sleeping at Last_

* * *

Feeling the walls closing in on her, Leia snuck through the base during the darkest portion of the night, suddenly desperate to be outside — and like the eerie quiet following a thunderstorm, the base was utterly, uncomfortably silent.

She envied those in their barracks she passed their ability to sleep, but the sweet relief of unconsciousness eluded her. Every time she closed her eyes she saw the blinding white explosion of her homeworld — the loss of everything and everyone she'd ever loved extinguished again and again behind her eyelids.

No. She would not sleep. Who knew what horrors awaited her there?

She knew she had nearly reached her destination when she felt the soft buzzing of life beyond these base walls _humming_ inside of her as she reached the flight hangar. The electricity hanging in the air around the ships practically vibrating in her bones.

She could almost feel insects whizzing, a nearby river rushing, the low hoot of a nocturnal bird somewhere nearby.

As she neared the exit the _Millennium Falcon_ seemed to appear suddenly, magically, out of the darkness in front of her. It sat, a silent guardian in the night by the large open bay doors, keeping watch over her.

She would never admit it to the ship's captain — the rogue smuggler who cockily proclaimed to anyone who would listen that she was the finest ship in the galaxy — but she really was _something._ Very easily the fastest ship Leia had been aboard.

She couldn't resist running her finger's lightly across the underside of the ship as she passed beneath it — the _hum_ of life growing stronger still as she did — there was something vaguely comforting about its presence — the ship and it's pilot that had flown her away from the horrors of the Death Star. The worst things she could imagine. It was a welcome intruder in her darkness.

* * *

The moon where they'd made their temporary home was uninhabited save for the Rebels, and the lack of light pollution was breathtaking. That she could still find any beauty in the universe at all astounded her — and she felt the new-but-already-familiar choking pain clawing its way up her throat as her eyes scanned the stars — darting furtively back and forth, _searching_. Her eyes stung in the cool wind — she knew it was only a matter of time before the numbness wore off, the shock dissipated.

Her eyes bounced quickly between the distant pin-pricks of light billions and trillions of miles away. Her chest ached, and her stomach churned — she wrapped her arms tightly around herself, trying desperately to keep her jagged pieces from flying apart. She dug her fingernails into her sides —

 _My fault._

 _My fault._

 _My fault._

The words repeated themselves on a loop in her mind, until her breath became labored, and her vision swam with unshed tears.

She looked and looked, but still she couldn't find it — and what kind of a Princess was she that she wasn't even sure if she was looking in the right direction? It was her fault that Alderaan was gone — but somehow worse than that was the knowledge it was _still_ out there, somewhere in time, and she wasn't sure she would recognize it even if she saw it.

 _My darling,_ her mother had said to her once, _not even_ you _can fix everything._ _Sometimes, bad things happen, and just because you can't always stop them, doesn't mean they're your fault. What's important is that you_ try _._

How badly she wished she could believe those words now, in this, her darkest of hours —

Interrupting her thoughts, the warm buzz that she'd felt in the hangar bloomed back to life suddenly in her chest, as soft footsteps approached her almost hesitantly from behind. And somehow, she knew who it was before even a word was uttered.

 _"Leia."_ His voice is quiet — a whisper, a question, an assurance that she isn't alone — and softer, more tender, than she ever would have imagined him capable. She realizes when he says it that in the several days that she's known him this is the first time she has ever heard him use her name.

 _Captain,_ she wants to say, _I want to be alone_ , or _Leave me be, please_ — something, _anything_ — but she feels her throat constrict tightly, like she is back on the Death Star. Instead this time it isn't Vader's invisible fingers trying to squeeze the secrets from her, but the weight of millions of souls whose deaths are now on her conscience choking her — making her breathless. She's sure that if she so much as tries to speak that the floodgates will open… and she _can't_ — so she doesn't.

He's close now, she can feel the heat rolling off of him in waves behind her, but she doesn't turn around to face him — she doesn't want anyone to see her this way.

"Princess," he says, but it's not a precursor to more — there is a full stop there. He doesn't say it derisively like he had on the Death Star — this time it feels almost like an acknowledgment, of all that she has lost — of all she'll never get back.

"It's my fault," she whispers without thinking, and she doesn't know what exactly compelled her to speak, and to this rugged, drug-running smuggler of all people — except that she feels suddenly that she is utterly and completely alone in the universe, but _he's here_ — whoever Han Solo was or wasn't, he was standing there, trying his best to offer her some comfort — and maybe that was enough — maybe that was all she needed — someone to remind her that she wasn't alone.

"It's not, Princess. S' really not. Deep down, you know that, too."

"If I had just stayed out of it! If _Alderaan_ had just stayed out of it none of this ever would have happened!"

She could feel his eyes on the back of her neck, appraising. "Would you really have been able to do that?" He asked, the skepticism heavy in his voice.

"Of course not, don't be absurd."

"Of course not," he repeats her words back to her, "you're in this fight 'cause you believe it's worth fighting _. I_ still think you're crazy, but…" he trailed off for a moment, letting out a frustrated sigh — she sensed he was struggling for words, searching blindly in the dark for the right thing to say. Something to make her feel slightly better, or at the very least, something that wouldn't make her worse.

She still hadn't turned around to face him, but she could imagine his stance: shifting from foot to foot, hand over his mouth, eyes in the distance.

"You know," he said finally, "I met an Alderaanian once in the Outer Rim, kinda outside the law if you know what I mean… but still, this guy, you should'a heard him. Goin' on and on about how proud he was that Alderaan had taken a firm stance against the Empire — how his people had a Queen who was gonna help lead the way in a new order, and a princess so fierce and courageous that she could make the scariest'a Grand Moffs tremble in their boots. They were _proud_ of you — proud to be… a part of somethin' greater. They believed in you. Believed… you were doin' the right thing. I don't think they'd blame you."

She felt a lone, traitorous tear escape, trickling down her cheek.

"It isn't your fault, Leia." He whispered, hoarse.

"But what if I could have… If I hadn't…"

" _No._ Don't do that. You'll drive yourself crazy doin' that."

She nods but doesn't speak, tilting her neck back, eyes once again scanning the sky. "Am I looking in the right direction?" She asks softly, but doesn't elaborate further. It doesn't matter — he knows immediately what she means; had wondered if that was what she was doing since the moment he saw her sneak out here.

He shakes his head, "no, it's um…" he pauses, _looking._

It doesn't take him long to locate it — the just barely-there pin-prick of light, nestled between two brighter stars. If Yavin had been much farther away, they likely wouldn't have been able to see it at all.

"There," he says, pointing it out to her.

She turns to look at him, for the first time since he's joined her out here. Her eyes are large as moons, shining glassy in the starlight. And Han thinks he's never seen a more heartbreaking thing in all his life, than this vision of a small princess without a planet, shoulders back, lips stiff, as she tries desperately to hold it all together.

"Can you show me?" She whispers.

He nods, moving to stand directly behind her, ducking down so that the tops of their heads are even. He extends his arm out over her shoulder and points. "Right there," his voice is soft, just the breath of a whisper in her ear.

"That one?" She asks, pointing; unsure which in the cluster he's actually indicating.

"No it's umm…" he trails off briefly, uncomfortable, "do you mind if I—?" He indicates her hand, suddenly finding himself worried about the protocol for touching a princess — but more worried that she might not _want_ to be touched. Not by him.

" _Show me, Han_." She asks again.

So he does. His hand softly but gently cupping hers as he guides it, until her index finger is finally hovering over that small but infinitely important speck of light.

"Do you want to be alone?" He asks, voice gruff in her ear — understanding — as he slips his hand off of hers and takes a small step back, separating them. She hates herself for missing the comforting warmth of his chest pressed to her back, but appreciates his thoughtfulness all the same.

"No," she whispered, "stay. Please."

"Alright, Princess."

They stood, silent and unmoving, faces turned up towards the stars, until Han reached out and placed a tentative hand on her shoulder, giving her a brief, comforting squeeze and then not letting go.

She appreciated it — that simple human connection, tethering her to the earth, grounding her. Suddenly feeling that without it, she might easily just float away, joining the souls that dwelled among the stars, now permanently gone from her reach.

 _Nothing is every_ really _gone, Leia,_ her mother used to say to her. _Not as long as you remember it._

And so she knew, they would live there — her family, her home, her _people_ — in her memory. Forever. And in that way, they could never truly die.

She wrapped her mother's words around herself like armor, preparing herself for the long, difficult road ahead — the battle, the _fight_ — now more determined than ever that they win; as she stared up at the far away light from Alderaan, shining down on her, the way it would for the rest of forever — infinite, eternal, endless light.


End file.
